My Cancer Journey: Living Authentically
I walked solemnly down the oddly quiet, beige-walled halls of the cancer centre, bracing myself for another 20-minute radiation appointment. I passed by reception desks left unattended and empty waiting room areas. Within these sanitized walls, there lied no trace of human life. I hooked a left. At the end of the hall emerged a silhouette of an older gentleman in a suit sitting in the waiting area of the radiation room. I edged past him to collect an unflattering hospital gown that all patients were to change into. Waiting patiently for the changeroom, I heard whistling coming from the other side of the wooden door. A female voice was humming a joyous tune. The weight of the voice strengthened my assumption that she was elderly and that it was in fact her husband that was waiting on the seat beside me. The tune continued and it was intensely joyous. Moments later, it began to strike me as excessively eager, forced, incongruent with the lifeless setting.
It took several months for my hair to grow back and with it appeared my confidence to stroll the streets hatless. One afternoon, I found myself at the rooftop bar of the Thompson Hotel for a Parisian-inspired cocktail party. The event sure was elegant — replete with exotic music, modern decor, and dazzling views of the skyline. Despite these distractions, I held at the back of my head that my doctor would likely put me back on chemo within a month to eradicate the residual cancer. I needed to maximize on the experience here at this rooftop bar. Almost without thinking, I said “This is perfect.” But it wasn’t: I was a bit frustrated on how long it took to get a drink, disappointed that the cute guy across the bar had a girlfriend, and confused about why the pool was closed. I realized I had become the overzealous woman whistling in the changeroom.
I was apprehensive ahead of my first young adult cancer meetup at the Princess Margaret Cancer Centre. The elevator doors to the 16th floor opened to a labyrinth of corridors. I arrived late but managed to lay claim to an empty chair in a modestly-sized conversation circle. At one point, I asked the circle how having cancer had changed their values, but was disappointed when their rather bland answers had nothing to teach me about the meaning of life. Resolute, I stayed behind when the circle concluded. Privately, I told the psychiatrist who led the support group about my 60% survival rate and engaged her in a conversation on learning to give into death. She broke into a vivid story of one of her younger patients who, in her teens, faced imminent death head-on like a champ. Using her example, the doctor told me to act authentic to how I really feel. The idea of being authentic struck me as odd and complex. I had tangled thoughts on what it even meant to be authentic. Even if I believe I am acting authentically, it may be true I am acting authentic to my aspirational self and not my true self.
As I developed this idea further, it occurred to me that the conceptual self/I/me may simply be a collection of impulses, motivations, and patterns of behaviour. Unchecked patterns of behaviour for those operating on auto-pilot due to hunger, sleep-deprivation, or grief can cause behaviour contrary to self-interest and professed values. But here, in this moment, we all have the miraculous ability to gather ourselves and ask, as Oprah once recommended, “What is the next best move?” and then do that. We must ask ourselves this question regularly, because “without conscious and deliberate effort, inertia always wins” (Tony Hseih).
Living authentically means living with awareness of our hidden impulses and modes of behaviour (i.e. the inertia) — both insidious and helpful ones — so we can break the chain of reactivity and live originally. So, what is your next best move?
